


Snowed In

by dedkake



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Awkwardness, Drunk Sex, Locked In, M/M, One Night Stands, Rebound Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1666178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedkake/pseuds/dedkake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles and Erik have a one night stand, but a blizzard traps them in Erik's apartment afterward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowed In

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt on the kink meme](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/8700.html?thread=21158652#t21158652) and the trapped square on my [longfic bingo](http://longfic-bingo.livejournal.com/) [card](http://dedkake.livejournal.com/11425.html). Not the WIP I most wanted to finish before DOFP, but one that needed it. Excuse my science, I’m not a scientist. Thanks to Emmy for the beta!

_Don’t bother coming tonight. We’re done. Az will bring you your stuff later._

Charles falls back to sit on the edge of his bed and stares at the text for a full five minutes, one arm still half into his suit jacket, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. Two years. Two years and _three months_ together and Sebastian breaks it off with a _text message_. It’s infuriating, but somehow Charles feels collected, centered on the hot mix of anger and humiliation in his mind. He considers sending a message back, demanding the face-to-face finale their relationship deserves. That would only lead to something wickedly painful and sexual and as much as Charles wants the fight, he’s not quite willing to put himself through the rest.

It’s not that he hadn’t seen this coming—far from it. Charles has been planning on breaking it off with Sebastian for months. As soon as he’d figured out that Sebastian was using him, that Sebastian changed when Charles stopped letting himself be pushed over, he’d begun devising plans to break up. But somehow that only makes it worse. Months of planning and Sebastian still has one up on him, still has the power, and Charles isn’t sure whether he wants to scream or cry.

He chooses the bar instead, because getting absolutely sloshed and potentially sleeping with someone equally as drunk has always been the best option for every emotion too strong to manage. He digs up his favorite blue polo, the one Sebastian hates and hasn’t let him wear for years, along with the oldest jacket in the back of his closet, something worn and black and soft that Sebastian has never laid eyes on. Jeans go without saying, dark and tight and nothing that Sebastian would be caught within fifty feet of.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Charles likes what he sees, despite the fact that he’s an inch away from breaking down and it seems obvious in every line of his face. There’s no way that anyone remotely like Sebastian will get to him again. But someone else will. Hopefully soon.

So of course, three hours later and a countless number of drinks past tipsy, Charles finds himself grinding on the dance floor of some club he’s forgotten the name of, looking through the crowd at a man too reserved to join in the fun. He _does not_ let himself think that Sebastian would be the same, would even have that same disinterested sneer on his lips. Instead of thinking that, Charles pushes himself through the crowd toward the man, enjoying the press of bodies and hands as he goes. His mind is already mostly numb from alcohol, the minds around him now appearing only as warm, unreadable blurs. They’re comforting blurs, nonetheless.

Stumbling as he pulls free of the dancers, and only exaggerating a little, Charles leans into the man’s space, bracing a hand on the wall beside him. He smiles up at the man, despite the deepening of his scowl and the muted flare of recognition Charles catches in his mind, and says, “Sorry about that, love. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“I think I have a guess,” the man mutters, swirling his drink as an indication and trying to sidestep around Charles. His voice is rough and accented and absolutely nothing like Sebastian.

“Nonsense,” Charles says, hoping it’s not slurred. “I’m still thirsty, so that certainly couldn’t be it.”

The man raises an eyebrow, unimpressed and uninterested, so Charles steals his drink, downing the Scotch in one before placing the empty glass back in the man’s still open hand. “Much better,” he murmurs around the burn, clapping the man on the shoulder.

“What the hell?” the man demands, gesturing wide with the glass. “That was my drink!”

Charles smiles pleasantly up at him. “I’ll buy you another, if you tell me your name,” he says, although as soon as the words register in the man’s mind, his name comes bubbling to the surface, sharp and clean— _Erik_.

For a moment, Charles is afraid he won’t answer and Charles will have to fold his hand, reveal his telepathy, or walk away. But Erik’s tense shoulders drop a fraction and he holds out his free hand for a shake. “Erik,” he says, and Charles barely resists placing a kiss to the back of his hand. He’s still sober enough to realize that won’t go over well.

He slows down, once he’s got Erik drinking, because the desire beginning to glow hot in Erik’s mind is intoxicating enough and Charles has no intention of vomiting or passing out before he gets into Erik’s bed. So he slows, drinks one for the three that Erik allows him to buy and slowly works his hand from Erik’s knee up his thigh. Erik notices immediately, of course, but doesn’t react more than to turn his knee out slightly, widening the angle of his legs on his stool, and Charles is more than willing to take advantage. Sebastian had no patience for subtlety in public, not with anything, and there is something thrilling about being allowed this again.

They must be talking, Charles is sure, and he hopes it’s not about Sebastian, or at least not too much. Theories of mutation is more likely, as Charles can hardly keep himself from the topic when sober, and the pleasant spark in Erik’s mind is real interest, nothing fake to ensure him a place in Charles’ pants, but a genuine curiosity about Charles’ studies. Charles does not look too closely at that, either.

A woman at the other end of the bar sends two shots their way, and Charles is more than happy to indulge himself even if Erik is wary. He knocks his shot back fast, barely letting it touch his tongue, and is pleased to find that Erik follows his lead quickly, slamming his shot glass back onto the bar top in time with Charles.

Leaning in close, enjoying the way Erik is pulled in as well, Charles murmurs, “I think it’s time for you to ask me back to your place.”

Erik braces a hand on Charles’ knee and Charles shivers with full-bodied desire. “What if yours is closer?” Erik asks, smirk clear in his voice even if Charles is too busy staring at the line of his throat to see it on his face.

“It’s not,” he says quickly—he doesn’t even want to think of having sex in a place so closely linked with Sebastian. He can’t stop himself from adding, “I’m planning on burning my bed the next time I see it.”

With a snort of laughter, Erik pushes himself off of his stool, leaning heavily on Charles for balance as he does. “I like arson as much as the next man, but we should probably avoid that,” he says, pulling Charles off his stool as well, even as Charles finishes paying their tab.

Since Charles hates awkward cab rides, he makes sure it’s not awkward, at least not for him and Erik. Or he would, if he weren’t so drunk that he’s beginning to worry that Erik’s not really Erik but actually Sebastian. So, the cab ride is, in fact, extremely awkward, and Charles knows it as soon as Erik pulls him out of the car, the contact sending a short spark of Erik’s thoughts clearly into Charles’ mind. Charles takes it as an indication to shut up.

“Are you okay?” Erik asks, placing a warm hand on Charles’ shoulder as they wait for the elevator. His mind is ringing with genuine concern and he’s beginning to have honest doubts about Charles’ capacity for consent and it’s all rather sweet, but not at all what Charles wants.

Turning into Erik’s shoulder, Charles pushes down his discontent, tries to ignore Sebastian’s voice growing louder in the back of his mind in the absence of the noise of the club, and says, “I’m about to be much better, I hope.”

Erik sighs in what might be a concealed laugh and shuffles Charles into the unreasonably small and smelly elevator. Charles presses his face into the wall and tries not to be sick. Very classy, very sexy, he tells himself, and is glad that Erik seems too preoccupied with watching the floors tick by to notice. He feels better when the elevator comes to a halt.

Charles doesn’t give Erik the chance to say a word once they’re inside his apartment, barely gives them a chance to toe off their shoes, before turning them around and pressing Erik against the nearest surface in a kiss that starts with his lips and tongue and teeth but involves his whole body as well. Erik is solid under him as he melts, gripping the sides of Charles’ head with strong fingers, slipping a leg between Charles’ as he rolls into him.

“Shit,” Charles breathes, jerking his mouth away to catch his breath, unable to stop grinding against Erik as he does. He can only hold Erik’s smirking gaze for a moment before has to hide his face in Erik’s shoulder with a deep groan. “So hot,” he murmurs. “You’re so fucking hot. I need you _so fucking bad_.”

Moaning, Erik freezes at the words. But it’s more of a snapping in his mind, charged and indecisive as his body keeps moving, one hand twisting into Charles’ hair as the other trails up and down his spine in a rhythm that matches the slow rolling of their hips. It takes Charles a moment to realize that he hasn’t done anything wrong, that Erik’s not taking offence to his dirty mouth like Sebastian might’ve. Rather, Charles has sparked something bright and hot and delighted in Erik’s mind—something Erik can’t decide what to do with.

Grip tight on Erik’s waist, Charles decides to push Erik’s mental process over its block. He turns his mouth into Erik’s neck in a lazy kiss. “I knew I needed you when I first saw you in the club,” he says, enjoying the movement of Erik’s neck against his lips as he swallows. “I needed your cock and I was ready to beg for it right there.”

Erik moans again, flipping them with measured strength, gentle enough to cushion Charles’ head with his hand as he presses Charles back into the wall. They disturb a framed picture that, instead of crashing to the floor, slides neatly down the wall to rest, completely in tact, on the ground. The spark of another mutation against Charles’ mind is dizzying and the ease with which Erik executes the move is nearly distracting. But Erik keeps rolling his hips forward and Charles zeroes back in to the more pressing matters.

Fingers fumbling with Erik’s shirt, pushing it up to get at the skin of his stomach, Charles gasps, “So fucking perfect.”

Charles feels the pleased and excited tensing of Erik’s stomach as Erik asks, “Where was it you needed my cock?” His breath is hot on Charles’ ear and neck and Charles shivers and turns for another, somewhat uncoordinated kiss.

“A bed,” Charles manages to answer eventually. The room is spinning behind Erik every time Charles opens his eyes, and for a good portion of the time that his eyes are closed. Being horizontal might help.

They make their way across Erik’s apartment slowly, unwilling to stop touching each other even after they’ve stopped their enthusiastic grinding. But it’s worth it for the soft support of the bed in Erik’s room.

Charles sinks down on the mattress, and Erik follows, resuming their earlier rhythm with ease. They’re both a little clumsy, even lying down, but everything is hot and moving and deliciously pleasurable. Charles is fairly certain he could lie in bed like this all day and he smiles when he feels the same thought in the front of Erik’s mind. But, Charles reminds himself, connecting with someone isn’t the purpose of this encounter. There is no room here for finding similarities and differences, just the rush of desire that bounces between them at each touch.

Deciding it’s time to be naked—the best way to banish any other thoughts—Charles grabs at the bottom of his shirt and pushes himself up to get a better angle to pull it off. He grins into their kiss as Erik follows his lead, sitting up and setting to work on his own clothes. He doesn’t get a chance to worry that he’s influencing Erik’s mind in his intoxicated state, because Erik is pulling out of their kiss to make room for shirts and saying, “I thought you were never going to get the hint.”

“You could’ve asked,” Charles says, running his fingers lightly down Erik’s newly exposed chest on his way down to his jeans. “Or just told me to,” he adds as Erik’s mind lights up again, his mutation working at the fastenings of both of their pants at once.

Erik makes a noncommittal noise and leans in for another kiss, but Charles pushes him back. “We’re not naked yet,” he starts to say, but it catches slightly when Erik falls back to the bed with a wheeze. His eyes are locked onto Charles’ arms and his mind is racing with questions of Charles’ strength and how much he might work out and how hadn’t he noticed before and Charles starts to panic.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, scrambling to get the tangle of blankets and jeans off his legs so he can lean over Erik and make sure he’s alright. “I didn’t think I pushed that hard,” he says softly, trailing off because he hasn’t been able to overpower anyone in bed for three years because first there had been Logan with super strength and healing and then there was Sebastian and every time Charles exerted any real force on him, he’d be drained and laid flat. He stares down at Erik, who merely looks bemused, still flushed and breathing hard, and starts babbling apologies again.

“Charles,” Erik says, and Charles freezes, looking up into his eyes. Erik kicks off his pants in a swift, fluid motion before flipping them, pressing Charles down into the mattress and leaning in close. “It’s alright,” he breathes. “I liked it.”

Charles blinks and finds a grin pulling at his lips. “Oh,” he says, wrapping a hand around the arm Erik is using to hold him down, twisting it off and pulling Erik down all the way. “Okay.”

They wrestle aimlessly for a few moments, pushing and pulling at each other wherever they can reach, lips and hands and teeth and feet, until their movements gain purpose, falling into a rhythm again. Their cocks slide against each other, a delicious drag made smooth by lube Charles hadn’t noticed Erik fetch. Charles rolls them again, moaning against Erik’s chin. With one hand, he keeps Erik’s right hand pinned to the bed and with the other, he pulls at Erik’s hair, stretching to kiss him again. Erik stays where he is, mind boiling hot and content, but lets his free hand slide between them to pull at their cocks.

Gasping against Erik’s lips, Charles lets his hand fall from Erik’s hair to the bed to get better leverage. He rolls his hips into Erik’s hand, tipping his forehead down to Erik’s chest to give himself more room to breathe, happy enough to listen to the string of nonsense Erik starts muttering when he has his mouth again.

Dizzy with the change of angle and getting lost in dual sensation, Charles sets himself to one of Erik’s nipples, sucking at it gently before sinking his teeth into the flesh above it, mind zeroing in on the fact that this might leave a mark, that this is Erik and not Sebastian or even Logan, that Charles actually means something, that he can leave an imprint and have impact and that he isn’t so easy to brush aside and forget, like some people might think he is.

“Fuck,” Erik breathes, Charles’ name catching in his throat as the pace of his hand falters and slows with his orgasm, dragging it out despite the desperate twitching of his hips.

Humming, Charles closes his eyes and lets himself be pulled over the edge as well. Erik’s warm contentment washes over him and Charles falls farther into his mind for a moment, the haze of alcohol in his own mind blocking out better reason. Erik is warm and deep despite a cool surface, the twists and turns of his mind almost as intoxicating as any alcohol could be.

Charles rolls off of Erik after a moment, coming back to himself. He covers his eyes with his free arm and drags Erik’s hand with his other to settle warm on his stomach, their fingers lacing together as they catch their breaths. Shifting to accommodate the new position, Erik pushes his lips to Charles ear and says, “You’re a mess.”

Shivering, Charles tries not to let himself think too deeply on what that could mean, focusing instead on the physical. “I don’t know where your towels are,” he mumbles, pleased with how coherently it comes out.

Erik makes a displeased noise and peels himself up and away, despite Charles’ soft protest. Charles, however, is too tired now to even think of moving his arm off his face to watch Erik walk across the room naked, which he picks up in the vague attachment he’s kept to Erik’s mind. The sound of water running distantly sparks something in Charles’ hazy mind and he wishes he had talked to Erik about telepathy at the bar, because he’d like nothing more than to call out to his mind now. He contents himself with finding a suitable pillow in the mess of Erik’s bed instead, never sure how people might react.

It doesn’t take long for Erik to return, but Charles has to dig himself out of near sleep as he registers Erik’s mind so near again. When Erik says nothing and makes no move to join Charles on the bed again, Charles forces himself to open his eyes.

“What are you doing up there?” he asks, blinking blearily at Erik where he’s standing over the bed, a towel in one hand and glass of water in the other.

“Do you want some water?” Erik asks roughly, holding the glass out towards Charles.

Charles groans and curls around his pillow again. “Only if it’s mostly alcohol,” he says. The thought of anything in his stomach is upsetting, but alcohol less so for its other soothing factors. And it won’t matter now if he throws it all up. He’s gotten what he needed. His body no longer belongs to Sebastian, and that freedom is the only thing that matters.

At least that’s what he tries to convince himself as Erik sits beside him and starts to wipe down his stomach with the towel.

Erik’s mind is colored with concern, and Charles wishes that Erik were at least as drunk as he is. “Maybe with a drink I could be up for round two,” Charles adds, twisting his hips convincingly as Erik finishes the last sweep of his towel.

It works. Erik disappears and reappears with an open beer bottle that Charles can immediately tell is actually filled with water. “It’s all I’ve got,” Erik says, no trace of lie in his tone of voice. Charles nearly rolls his eyes—everyone is somehow convinced he’s a child.

Taking the bottle as he pulls himself up, Charles lets Erik kiss him, leaning into him and enjoying the slow, tender press of it. Sitting back, Charles tips his head back to drink half the bottle. He doesn’t feel like fighting and as much as he loves getting drunk, he doesn’t actually relish the thought of hangover.

“Does this actually work on anyone?” he asks, Erik’s smug satisfaction melting into a pleasant laugh.

“It seems to be working on you,” Erik says, lying down on the bed once more. Charles hides his quick scan of Erik’s lean body behind another swig of water.

Licking his lips and setting the bottle aside, Charles says, “Never! You can’t fool me.”

“You did drink it, though,” Erik says, stretching in a way he’s very conscious of.

“It’s cute that you were worried about me,” Charles says, leaning down over Erik to press their foreheads together, enjoying the warm flutter of Erik’s breath and the stutter of his mind. It makes it easier to ignore the thoughts of Sebastian and his double standards regarding drunk sex.

Erik pulls him into a kiss, one hand curling around the back of Charles’ neck to adjust the angle while the other traces a warm line down Charles’ back. It’s wonderful and unhurried, but dipping his head over Erik is making Charles dizzy and Erik’s knee pressing up the inside of Charles’ leg has Charles very suddenly aware that he’s been drinking for hours and hasn’t even seen a toilet since they left the bar. Pulling back, Charles breathes a quiet curse and surveys the room for an exit.

“Just across the hall,” Erik says, nodding his head toward the door as he sinks back into his mattress with a lazy smile.

Charles nods his thanks and stumbles toward the bathroom, catching himself on doorframes and doorknobs and countertops to keep himself upright against the growing dizziness that comes with being upright. After relieving himself, Charles makes it all the way back into bed before realizing that Erik has dozed off.

“I should go,” Charles murmurs. Not even Erik’s sleeping mind pauses to acknowledge Charles, which Charles takes as a good indication of an affirmative response. He tips his head back against a pillow and rubs at the bridge of his nose, trying to recall where he’s left his clothes around the apartment, how he’ll be able to collect everything in the dark without waking Erik and when he opens his eyes again, it’s morning.

There’s a slightly brighter glow peeking out around the blinds, one that indicates natural light rather than the harsh glare of city lights. Charles’ head is pounding and he’s glad the lights are still off, even if a quick sweep of his arm reveals an empty bed. He knows, of course, exactly where he is and why he’s there—one of the many shiny side effects of his telepathy being an eidetic memory that stands even in the face of intoxication of almost any form.

He should have left last night. It’s always better to avoid the awkward morning after.

The sound of water running, a shower, registers in Charles’ slow-moving mind, and relief spreads up from his very center. Erik, it seems, is an even more courteous host than Charles had previously thought, giving him the chance to slip out completely unseen. It’s a move Charles will have to remember for the future. But his relief is quickly swept away by the sudden, aching realization that his bladder is about to explode.

“Fuck,” Charles breathes, sitting up and shaking his head past the stars in his eyes and the sharp pounding of his headache. A quick survey of Erik’s mind brings up the layout of the apartment—small, utilitarian, no extra bathrooms. Charles curses again and hopes there’s one in the lobby.

Casting around the floor of the room, Charles finds his shirt, jacket, his socks and underwear, and finally his jeans, which he almost hadn’t recognized. He doesn’t really think that Erik is the type of man to steal, but he’s relieved to find his wallet, keys, and iPhone still in the pocket of his jeans. Tugging on his clothes as quickly as he can, both in the desire to escape before Erik reappears and to make it to the nearest available toilet as soon as humanly possible, Charles glances only briefly at his cell.

The screen is filled with a list of texts, the font too small to read in his current hurried and achy state, but Charles finds his heart suddenly in his throat and he has to sit back down on the bed in order not to be sick. At least one of the texts must be from Sebastian—there’s no other explanation for receiving so many. Raven worries about him sometimes, but not like this.

Charles finally decides to take a few of his precious moments to check his phone because he has to know. There are sixteen messages from Raven, three from the university, and exactly none from Sebastian. The knowledge that Sebastian really hasn’t messaged him sits uncomfortably in his mind, and he feels light headed, although he’s not sure whether it’s from joy or despair.

Cursing again, Charles drops his phone to the bed, rubbing his hands over his face and back through his hair. Despite the other aches and desires of his body, he wants nothing more than to curl up back in Erik’s bed and sleep again, ignore the world for a little while longer. He’s going to have to start _telling people_ that Sebastian broke up with him today, and it’s going to be more real than him just sleeping with someone else. As liberating as that had felt at the time, it somehow feels like nothing in the face of having to speak with his and Sebastian’s mutual friends and acquaintances.

He picks up his phone again, once his panic has subsided enough for him to think clearly, and stabs at the messages from the university. The first is a warning for a winter storm advisory from 2am to 3pm; the second, a change to a blizzard advisory from 4am to 8pm; the third, a message explaining that most of the city had shut down and that all students and staff were encouraged, on the word of the mayor, to stay inside where it was safe.

With a sigh, he switches to Raven’s messages, all along the lines of, _where are you?_ , _are you ok you stupid selfish bastard?_ , and _why isn’t sebastian answering my calls?_

Charles types back a quick, _Sorry, I’m alive. Are you ok?_ , as he wanders to where he thinks he left his shoes.

The water in the bathroom shuts off abruptly and Charles grabs his shoes up off the floor beside the couch and slips out the door as quietly as possible. Pulling his shoes on in the elevator, he hopes there will be an insane enough cab driver out there willing to get him home in whatever mess the weather has made of the city.

Unfortunately, the lobby is dark and empty, the snow visible through its glass doors, piled nearly three quarters of the height of the doors. He’s snowed in—the whole building is snowed in—and he has to turn back around to face the open elevator once more, the memory of Erik guiding him into it last night sharp and clear in his mind. He debates, momentarily, the idea of staying in the lobby until someone shows up to dig them out, but he banishes the thought because it’s cold and there’s _no bathroom_ anywhere to be seen—there’s not even a conveniently placed decorative tree to use as a stand-in.

So, a few minutes later finds him back outside Erik’s door, staring at the cold lettering, grateful that he’d thought to glance at the number before leaving. With a deep breath, he knocks, hoping this won’t be as humiliating as he suspects it will be.

Erik opens the door promptly, now dressed in dark sweatpants and a clingy grey tee that fit him almost as well as the clothes he’d worn the club last night. Despite how attractive Charles finds Erik in this moment, something he feels rather proud he can manage, he can’t quite ignore the way Erik’s mind is zeroing in on the flaws of Charles’ own appearance, just how god awful he looks. 

“Uh, hi,” Charles says, when Erik does nothing more than stare at him. Awkward _and_ humiliating. Perfect.

“Hi,” Erik says slowly, frowning at Charles. “Did you forget something?”

Charles straightens his shoulders and aims for his more normal, confident air. “No. Actually, we appear to be snowed in and I don’t really know anyone else in the building.”

Erik’s frown deepens, but he pulls the door back enough to allow Charles entry. 

The silence between them is thick and awkward after Erik closes the door, and he apparently has no idea what to do or say now that Charles is back in his apartment. Maybe he is always this way with guests when he’s not drunk, Charles thinks, but he doesn’t really have enough energy to speculate over Erik’s sober personality at the moment.

“Would you mind if I used your bathroom?” he asks, stepping out of his shoes for something to do.

“It’s across from the bedroom,” Erik says immediately, pointing down the hallway.

Charles grins at him sheepishly and says, “I know,” before he nearly runs for the bathroom, closing the door behind him more forcefully than he’d wanted to.

Besides the toilet, Charles finds some aspirin and mouthwash that he uses, doubling the recommended portions for both to ensure the removal of last night’s drinking. He contemplates asking about the shower for only a moment before he decides to simply go for it—Erik can’t expect him to sit around smelling like sex and alcohol all day.

The water is still hot, but only remains so for a few minutes, forcing Charles to shorten his shower considerably. He usually takes fast showers, but a long one would have been a great excuse to hide in the bathroom longer.

Fortunately, there’s a dry towel still hanging from the rack on the wall, and once he’s dry, Charles feels more like himself than he has since waking up. At least, he feels a lot less like he’s going to be sick—or that his head is about to explode. But that comes at another price—now he has to face the fact that he’s back in Erik’s apartment, stuck here indefinitely, after last night’s embarrassment.

What finally forces him out of the bathroom are his clothes, which smell too bad to put on after a shower. Wrapping the towel tightly around his waist, Charles sticks his head out the door to call for Erik, but finds a pile of clean clothes folded in front of the door. He wastes no time pulling them on.

When he walks back into the living room, he finds Erik glaring down at his phone where he’s seated on the couch.

“Thanks for the clothes,” Charles says, unsure how else to announce himself.

Erik glances up at him and says, “You can put yours in the wash with the sheets if you’d like. The washer’s in the back of the kitchen.”

Charles nods, glancing around for the washing machine when Erik doesn’t move. It feels odd to do his laundry at someone else’s apartment, but Charles is glad of something to do. He’s still not sure how he’s supposed to face Erik.

Before Sebastian, Charles had been bad at any relationships that lasted longer than a few hours, and here he is, stuck with Erik long after the alcohol has worn itself out of Erik’s system. Just wonderful.

Erik has moved to the table, setting out coffee and sugar and cream and separating out yesterday’s newspaper. Of course, he’s taken the front page for himself, leaving Charles with nothing exciting, but Charles slides into the empty seat at the table anyway, taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the day.

They sit in an uncomfortable, awkward silence for a long time, Erik very obviously not reading the paper, which is spread out in front of him, while Charles contemplates an odd piece of modern art on the wall. Its bright purples and reds stand out against the rest of the apartment’s decor, grey and silver, and Charles can’t help the flash of memory to Erik’s deep maroon boxers.

Erik clears his throat awkwardly, setting his coffee mug down on the table and shifting in his chair to face Charles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t normally have people over like this.”

Letting out a small, relieved sigh, glad that he doesn’t have to start the conversation, Charles says, “I normally don’t stay over.”

Erik nods, eye flicking around, his mind working so hard to find something else to say that Charles winces. Obviously this isn’t going to be easy. They both know exactly what last night was supposed to have been, quick, easy, no strings attached, and with that laid out before them, there’s nothing really left to say.

Except—

Charles grins, turning to Erik and leaning in close again. Erik watches him closely, his eyes crossing a little when Charles leans in for a kiss. Surprise flashes bright in Erik’s mind and he pulls back slightly, but not enough so that Charles doesn’t catch him, the kiss sharp with teeth.

It doesn’t last long, Erik putting a hand on Charles’ chest to push him back. Charles sits back, watching Erik closely, ready to jump back in at the slightest indication because he doesn’t want to talk and he doesn’t want to _not_ talk. There’s no reason that they have to face the real world yet.

“What was that?” Erik asks, voice rough like it had been last night. It’s somehow soothing and Charles has to stamp down on the sudden desire rising in his mind—desire not just to hear that voice in the heat of the moment, but to hear it at any time, at every time.

Licking his lips, because he knows that people like it and he hopes he still has a chance, Charles says, “I just thought maybe we could pick up where we left off last night. Just think of it as an extended night and avoid all of this.” He gestures between them, that awkward, silent space that hangs there.

Erik searches his face for a minute, his eyebrows pressing together in thought. Charles wants to kiss the line there away—at least until Erik drops his gaze back to his coffee mug. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, taking another sip.

Charles’ heart sinks, desperate for something to latch onto. “Come on,” he starts. “It could just be a continuation. Still nothing important, just something to do. I’ll still leave when I can and it doesn’t have to mean anything.” He’s babbling and probably saying things he shouldn’t, but he can’t stop himself.

“Why?” Erik asks, crossing his arms over his chest, building another wall to cross.

Blinking in surprise, Charles asks, “What?”

“Why were you with me last night and not Sebastian Shaw?” Erik asks, eyes narrowing.

This, at least, is not surprising. Charles remembers Erik recognizing him near the beginning of their encounter the previous night, and neither Charles nor Sebastian live in any sense of privacy. Everyone knows they’re together. Or everyone knows they _were_. Charles’ stomach twists painfully and he turns back to his coffee.

“It didn’t matter to you last night,” he bites out. “So, why should I tell you now?”

Erik slumps back in his chair, frustration nearly radiating off of him. “Because it’s not last night anymore,” he says shortly.

Charles glares at Erik from the corner of his eye, contemplating his response and the weight of his phone in his hand. He doesn’t know how long it will be until the world finds out the truth, but it will. It might already be out there—Sebastian really has never been one for waiting. There’s no point in keeping the truth from Erik, but Charles can’t help feeling a little resentment towards Erik for finally bringing it up.

“I wasn’t cheating, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Charles says eventually, ignoring Erik’s cutting gaze.

Erik’s coffee mug lands heavily on the table, nearly spilling. “What?” he asks, sounding breathless. “He agreed to that?”

Charles turns to Erik slowly, eyebrow raised at the absurdity of the accusation. “Sebastian Shaw sharing something? When he’s not even there to observe?” he says, dripping sarcasm. “Please.”

Erik glares, but before he can snap back, Charles switches tactics. “What?” he asks, hoping that he’s not correct with this jab. “Are you one of his followers or something? Trying to get close to him however you can?”

Erik laughs this time, and when Charles checks, he finds that Erik’s amusement isn’t even slightly sarcastic. He genuinely thinks the accusation is funny. “You’re both idiots, is what I think,” he says, getting up to pour himself another cup.

The press of Erik’s amusement is nearly contagious, and Charles finds himself relaxing despite his frustration. “I can’t argue on his part,” he says slowly, “but _my_ work is important.”

“You’re a scientist,” Erik says, sitting back down, his entire body more open this time, easy and comfortable in this conversation. Charles warms a little.

“I am,” Charles says defensively. Erik merely shakes his head, clearly disapproving, and focuses back on his coffee. “What is it that you do that makes my work so irrelevant?” Charles asks.

Erik sets his cup down gently, thoughtfully, before turning to fix Charles with a stern look, his eyes pale and almost green in the light of the kitchen. “I’m an attorney,” he says, and Charles tries to think of any mentions of an _Erik_ in any of the major cases of the past few years, coming up empty. “I work small cases, mostly. Cases no one else will take, because a mutant in poverty, who can’t afford to pay the bills, isn’t worth the trouble—even if they’re going to lose their home unlawfully, or if they’re suffering abuse at the hands of their employer or lover.”

The passion and conviction behind Erik’s words are intoxicating, and Charles finds himself drawn in. He takes a breath in the silence Erik gives him, before finally saying, “My work is meant to be useful in legal situations.”

“But you have no perspective,” Erik says, eyes glinting. “You sit in your expensive lab at your high-class university, day after day. You have no idea what it’s like out here. You can’t possibly be doing the right work when you have no idea what it even means to be a mutant in our society. You’ve proven that much so far.”

That stings, because there is at least some truth to it, but instead of being wounded, Charles finds himself smiling. “Are you really going to say that a telepath has no perspective?” he asks, leaning against the table, coffee forgotten.

Erik’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, his mind hitching, caught off guard. He’d forgotten, and Charles wishes again that he’d brought it up sooner. He doesn’t like using it as a weapon, even in an intellectual sense.

“When you surround yourself with privileged people,” Erik says, trailing off, trying to order his suddenly jumbled thoughts.

Charles’ smile broadens. “You’re right, of course,” he says, trying not to laugh at Erik’s confusion at the concession. “I don’t get out much and I certainly haven’t lived the life of an average mutant. But I do know some things, and studying the X gene, making a space for it in the field of genetics, is essential to carving out our place in the world. If we don’t even know what we are, if we’re a mere abstraction, we’re never going to make it anywhere.”

“And in the meantime,” Erik jumps in, “there are people suffering. And you’re doing nothing that will ever help them.”

Nodding agreement, Charles says, “But someone has to be there to stop madmen like Sebastian and Stryker. Imagine if they were the only names in genetics right now.”

Erik levels him with a thoughtful stare, sipping it his coffee slowly as he leans back in his chair. “Why in the world are you dating Dr. Shaw if you have so much against him?” he asks, this time catching Charles off guard.

“Well,” Charles says, already getting lost in memories of the beginning of his relationship with Sebastian. “Well, he is _handsome_.” Erik actually laughs, and Charles does a good job ignoring it. “And I suppose his rhetoric is appealing to many young, impressionable mutants, regardless of the extent to which they believe him. I haven’t known many mutants who have absolutely no internalized shame. And to me—to anyone, really—but to me as a telepath especially, that means a great deal.”

A look somewhere between concern and suspicion crosses Erik’s face, a question of Charles’ own shame already forming at the front of his mind, and Charles shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, now. Sebastian and I are through.”

“What?” Erik says, mind derailing again.

“He broke up with me last night,” Charles says, and it’s the first time that it’s been anywhere but inside his own head. Letting out a long, slow breath, Charles relaxes into the relief of someone else knowing.

Erik is frowning, running through the events of the previous night in his mind. “So that’s why you didn’t want to go to your place. I should’ve known,” he says, looking down into his empty coffee cup.

“I’m sorry if I’ve used you at all,” Charles says. He hadn’t been sorry about it before, hadn’t wanted to feel sorry, but he can’t help but feeling guilty now, sitting in Erik’s tiny kitchen, Erik’s old shirt warming him. He almost wishes they’d met somewhere else.

Erik snorts and shoots Charles a sly grin. “I’m the one who slept with you when I thought you were cheating on your boyfriend,” he says. “It’s up in the air which of us should feel more guilty.”

“Why did you sleep with me if you felt that way?” Charles asks, resting his chin on his hand.

“Because you’re hot?” Erik says without missing a beat.

Charles laughs, the turn around not lost on him. “I’m glad you think so,” he says, but doesn’t let the topic fall. “But I do believe you’re deeper than that.”

Standing up again to stretch—which Charles is glad to watch—Erik says, “I might be shallow enough not to turn down offers of sex with attractive mutants.”

“You turned me down this morning,” Charles returns.

Erik doesn’t look at him, gathering up their mugs instead and taking them to the sink to start cleaning up. “Yes, well,” he says, “that was this morning.”

“Fine,” Charles says, letting it fall. He gets up and opens the fridge, ignoring the boundaries of normal guest behavior despite Erik’s disgruntled surprise.

“Let me cook you breakfast,” Charles says, after he’s taken inventory of Erik’s food. “It’s the least I can do.”

Charles manages to make scrambled eggs and toast without much trouble, although the eggs are probably slightly overdone. Erik doesn’t say much during the process, watching Charles instead—or very obviously not watching him. Charles tries very hard to think about something other than how nice it feels to be the center of someone’s attention.

When Charles returns the the table, two plates of eggs and toast in hand, he finds it set, more coffee and a couple of glasses of orange juice included.

“Fancy,” Charles says, sliding back into the empty seat at the table.

“It’s the least I could do,” Erik says, a smirk tracing the corner of his mouth.

Erik’s phone buzzes as he’s picking up his fork, and he swears softly when he checks the ID. “I’m sorry, I have to take this. It might take a while,” he says, grabbing up his plate, and turns towards his bedroom. Charles feels his stomach sink at the prospective loneliness.

Turning when he gets to the door of his room, Erik says, “You can use whatever you want out here.” And then he’s gone, the door closed behind him, his voice muffled as he answers the call.

Charles slumps down at the table, pushing at his eggs listlessly. He eats in silence, scrolling through one of the articles he’d put on his phone the day before and wishing that the university’s mobile website worked in any functional capacity. Someone really needed to make an app for that. He does the dishes and wipes down the counters before exploring the living room.

He skips over the TV, the game console and DVD player tucked under it and the remotes for all three in a neat line on the table, heading straight to the bookshelf instead. Even with Erik’s permission, it seems invasive to go exploring too deeply, the contents of someone’s bookshelf too personal in Charles’ mind, so he grabs the first title he recognizes and settles down onto the surprisingly comfortable leather couch.

It’s an odd sort of loneliness to be in someone else’s space while they stand just a wall away. Charles tries not to let the awkwardness get to him, like it had this morning, but he can’t fully focus on the book no matter how hard he tries. He doesn’t let himself get drawn into Erik’s mind, but he does let his consciousness float around the building, picking up a number of quirks and stories as he reads, trying not to feel like he’s getting accustomed to this place—because he _is_ going to leave as soon as he can, and he and Erik won’t ever see each other again and there’s no point in doing this—but knowing he is.

Erik emerges from his room again just after six, looking worn and slightly rumpled, his laptop tucked under his arm. Charles has gotten a good way into the book, despite a few long stretches of text-arguments with Raven. He has his feet propped up on one armrest of the couch, but drops them to the floor with a sheepish smile when Erik glares at them.

“I got a call from management a few hours ago,” Erik says, dropping down into an easy chair and setting his laptop on the coffee table.

Charles follows suit, setting the book aside and sitting up all the way. “And?” he prompts, because Erik’s silence is dragging on.

“They said the building should be dug out by noon tomorrow, they’re sorry for the inconvenience,” Erik says, running his fingers through his hair.

Letting the information settle, Charles leans back and says, “Too bad. I was just getting comfortable.” He says it in jest, but it’s at least somewhat true. The thought of leaving feels just as lonely as sitting in Erik’s empty living room. Already, after only just a few moments of being near Erik again, Charles is feeling better.

Erik laughs, a short bark of sound that seems almost startled out of him. He’s looking at Charles, his eyes wide and bemused, trailing over Charles’ form on the couch, catching where Charles’ borrowed shirt is riding up.

Charles gasps softly and Erik tears his eyes away, staring pointedly at his bare feet on the plush carpet. Charles fidgets with his shirt, because they’re not supposed to be flirting, goddammit.

There’s another long silence, this time awkward again, like this morning. Aside from wanting to push himself across the room into Erik’s arms, Charles is burning to ask Erik about the work he’s been doing, intrigued by Erik’s description of his work earlier. But that feels even more intimate, too much like asking his partner how their day went over the dinner table. So he doesn’t. He shifts his feet awkwardly instead, picking at the pants Erik lent him. His laundry is probably done, but he’s forgotten about it.

“I don’t feel like cooking,” Erik mutters, eyes fixed on the kitchen over Charles’ shoulder.

“I could cook,” Charles offers, wincing because everything he does makes this seem more natural and domestic and it can’t be.

Erik shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet. “You couldn’t even cook eggs. I’m not letting you cook my food again,” he says, making his way into the kitchen.

Charles follows, saying, “They were edible.” They were. Charles can cook for himself, no matter what anyone—everyone—says otherwise.

Erik mostly ignores Charles as he bustles about the kitchen, working from scratch, something Charles rarely does, and Charles is content to watch. It seems simple enough, chicken and rice and vegetables, but Charles wouldn’t ever make it on his own.

It’s more interesting to watch Erik himself, rather than the food. He’s at ease here, relaxed in the kitchen even with an audience. And Charles can’t stop staring at the narrow line of his waist, made even more prominent whenever he reaches for another spoon or the salt shaker.

When Erik is finished, his mind is less clouded, more awake than it had been and Charles finds himself smiling again. Erik offers Charles a plate and asks, “How do you feel about chess?”

Taking the plate, Charles says, “I think it goes better with alcohol.” Which is true. He hadn’t noticed a board earlier, and he starts searching immediately, the prospect intriguing.

Erik sets his plate on the table and disappears into his room again. “There’s beer in the fridge,” he calls back.

Charles makes a face, but sets his plate down and grabs two bottles, setting them on the table as well. Erik emerges from his room with a chessboard in hand. “I would offer you wine,” he says, setting the board up even as he slides into his chair, “but I was planning on having a party next weekend, so I cleared out all the good stuff.”

“Such a good host,” Charles chides, choosing not to comment on Erik taking white for himself. It doesn’t really matter.

“I don’t have enough money to pay for booze for people I barely know,” Erik mutters, pushing a pawn forward and digging into his food.

The pieces are wooden, but Charles is pleasantly surprised to find coins joined to their bottoms so Erik can move them hands-free. It’s hard not to applaud every time Erik does it. Sebastian’s powers and his own are so much less visible, less useful in any physical, everyday ways, and Charles has always had a fascination with mutations in general. Slowly, as Erik grows more confident with his powers, they relax into easy conversation once more.

“You’re not cheating, are you?” Erik asks when Charles takes his second bishop. It’s a natural segue, from Erik’s mutation to Charles’, but it’s unsettling nonetheless. Erik is smiling, but there’s real suspicion in his mind as well and Charles tries not to get upset.

“Of course not,” he says, holding his hands up. “I would never.”

Erik relaxes minutely, a slight easing of tension in his shoulders, but his smile turns into a vicious grin. “I would,” he says. “We should all use our mutations wherever they’re useful.”

Charles bites his lip. Telepathy is different, or at least most people think so, human and mutant alike, and it’s hard not to pursue that line of conversation. He says instead, “It would be so much less fun that way.”

“So now you’re toying with me?” Erik asks, making his move with a flick of his wrist.

“Maybe I am,” Charles says, smiling back at Erik, enjoying the sparking of Erik’s mind that comes with his mutation.

Erik’s brow creases slightly, but he’s not upset, just interested. “Would I be able to tell if you were cheating?”

“You mean, if I were using my powers?” Charles asks, because he really doesn’t like to think of every aspect of his mutation as _cheating_.

Erik nods.

Charles takes a deep breath, always hesitant to explain the full extent of his powers, but he has wished for Erik’s approval since last night, so he pushes on. “You’d only know if I wanted you to.”

Erik starts toying with one of the black pawns he’s captured, spinning it over and over in the air before him, almost unconsciously. “So you could be lying to me right now?” he asks slowly.

Charles sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. Erik might be simply exploring the theory at this point, but Charles can’t help feeling defensive because this is his life. “I pick up surface thoughts and emotions along with anything particularly strong or directed at me without really trying, the same way you can walk into a room and know exactly where all the metal is without thinking about it. I can do a great deal more than that when I put my mind to it, but I won’t unless I have permission—or if someone is in danger. Choose to believe what you want, but that’s how I operate.”

Frowning, Erik asks, “So you’re always just listening in? To everyone?”

Charles takes in a sharp breath, readying himself for the inevitable fight. It always ends up like this, even Sebastian had fought with him about it at first, which is even more ridiculous because Charles can barely read Sebastian, any pressure on his mind causing the same reaction as if it had been a physical blow. “It’s not like that,” Charles says, closing his eyes and trying to figure out how to word it this time, maybe get it right for once.

“No?” Erik asks, leaning forward. “It would be amazing if you were. Not that I revel in the idea of having no privacy, but the _power_ of that.” He trails off, pulling the pawn out of the air now, twisting it in his fingers instead.

It’s an odd reaction, startling Charles into looking up at Erik, studying him. “You don’t mind?” Charles asks, shaking his head. “I mean, you have no less privacy with me than with anyone who is good at reading body language. It’s just nearly impossible to lie to me. That’s all.”

“Unless I believed the lie was true, right?” Erik asks, countering Charles’ next move without really glancing at the board.

Charles relaxes this time, finally allowing himself to release the tight hold he’s held on his mind. It would be so easy, every time he got into a discussion of his telepathy, to use it against the other party, so he tries to keep it to a minimum when he does. Erik’s mind is warm and _interested_ , and Charles turns his attention back to the board.

“I think I’ll have you in three,” Charles says, the sequence of moves clear in front of him.

Erik makes a displeased noise and gets up to pull two more beers out of the fridge. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that,” he says, his king falling over while his back is turned.

Smiling, Charles takes his beer after Erik pops the cap for him. “You’re good,” he says, setting the pieces up for another game.

“Not as good as you,” Erik says. He doesn’t sound upset about it, and he’s obviously still interested in a second game, turning the board for Charles to have white this time.

Charles waves him off, opening with a pawn. “Maybe I was just cheating.”

“It wouldn’t be cheating,” Erik says softly.

“I’m glad you think so. Not many people believe that.” Charles has enough experience to know now when he _is_ cheating and when he’s just being himself. It might be a fine line, but there is a difference.

Erik takes a sip of beer, his lip curling slightly. “It’s just another skill you have that I don’t,” he says.

Charles wonders, for a moment, how far Erik would take it. “Do you think it would be cheating if I convinced the traffic cop that I wasn’t speeding? Or if I told the cashier that I gave him a twenty when I really gave him a ten?”

“We shouldn’t have to play by their rules,” Erik says, his eyes narrowing, becoming colder. “Those rules weren’t designed with us in mind. And the rules they do make with us in mind are oppressive.”

“We’re not so different from _them_ as you seem to think,” Charles says. It’s a debate he’s used to having with Sebastian, one they argued tirelessly since the first time they met, years before they started seeing each other. Charles knows the holes in both sides like the back of his hand, but he never backs down.

Erik takes one of Charles’ rooks, and Charles notes that he’s playing more aggressively this game, coming after Charles instead of waiting him out. “We’re better than they are,” Erik says. He believes it.

With a sigh, Charles sits back in his chair. “So you agree with Sebastian, then,” he says, glancing back towards Erik’s living room. “You’ve probably got his entire collection in there, somewhere.”

“I have your books, too,” Erik says, the severe look on his face softening. “And I told you before that you’re both idiots.”

“Yes,” Charles says, changing tactics on the board, hoping it’s not too late to do so. “But at least _I’m_ an idiot with a firm understanding of how evolution works.”

Erik looks confused for a moment. “We are the more dominant species,” he says, his eyes darkening again.

Charles laughs, he can’t help it. It’s like confronting a confused freshman. “No,” Charles says, aiming for something short of condescending but realizing he’s failing. “We’re not a different species, not yet. And I doubt we’ll ever get that far.”

“Yes, but—” Erik starts to say, cut off by the ringing of Charles’ phone.

It’s Raven. Mouthing an apology to Erik, Charles seeks out the bathroom for some privacy. He tries to keep the conversation short, for Erik’s sake and because his phone’s battery probably won’t last him until noon tomorrow like he needs it to. But Raven is lonely in her apartment and Hank has already gone to bed, so Charles lets her talk.

When he finally comes back to the kitchen, Erik has cleaned up their dishes and is sitting back at the table contemplating the crossword in yesterday’s paper. Charles has the sudden urge to lean over him and kiss his forehead, there in the soft, yellow glow of the kitchen light. It’s strong enough that Charles takes a step toward Erik before directing himself to his own chair—no, to the chair that he’s been using today. It’s not his chair. It won’t be. He’s not in a relationship with Erik and he needs to take a break from that anyway.

“Everything alright?” Erik asks, pushing a pawn forward, his strategy from earlier seemingly forgotten.

Charles shakes his head. “Fine. Just my sister,” he says.

“Not Shaw?” Erik presses, setting the paper aside.

Wincing, Charles says, “No. I don’t believe I’ll be hearing from him again.”

Erik sits in silence, contemplating his next move. It’s an easy silence now, not awkward or forced, and Charles can’t help but enjoy it. The game continues, Erik’s aggressive strategy falling back into place after a only few minutes, and Charles’ offensive defense begins to take effect despite its late implementation. Charles has always found chess to be a great way to learn about someone, and even though he’s not trying here, he can’t help but pick up on the subtle shifts in Erik’s face and body in response to different moves, or the way that he’s able to change up his strategy as easily as Charles is.

It’s a nice change from Sebastian’s simple, stagnant style of play. Charles gave up playing against Sebastian early on in their relationship, the two of them finding other ways to pass the time, and it’s so nice to be able to play again. He’s almost disappointed when Erik breaks the silence.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier,” he says, not looking up from the board.

“And what was that?” Charles says, already running through the entire range of things he’s said since meeting Erik. It’s a rather embarrassing collection of drunk and awkward conversations.

Erik fingers his queen, twisting it about in his fingers, the base rolling on its square before he decides to move it, switching it for Charles’ bishop instead. “You said we should just extend the one night stand to make it easier,” he says, each word chosen carefully and enunciated precisely.

Charles looks up to find Erik staring back at him, eyes bright. He _wants_ to say, yes, that’s still an option, he’d love to jump back into bed with Erik, because that’s true. But things are different now from this morning, and Charles suspects it wouldn’t quite be the same. “I think the moment’s rather passed,” he says, turning his eyes back to the board, waiting to take his next move even though he knows exactly what it will be.

“I don’t think so,” Erik says, and leans forward to catch Charles in a kiss.

But it has, Charles knows, turning his head in a wordless denial. They know about each other now, and Erik knows exactly why Charles had gone home with him last night. The circumstances are completely different this time, and it _would_ mean something to sleep with each other again. It would be like having sex after a date, and incredibly personal date that involved home-cooked food and listening to each other’s private phone conversations. A _date_ isn’t what Charles is interested in, and he doesn’t think that Erik’s interested, either. And it wouldn’t be fair to Erik even if he were. There’s no getting around Sebastian this time.

“Maybe I should go to bed,” Charles says, pushing his rook across the board. Erik will have him in four, if he’s paying attention.

Apparently he’s not, because he just moves a pawn forward again. Charles is almost offended by Erik’s lack of concern for their game, but when he looks up again, Erik’s gaze is still fixed on him, still bright with intent.

“Erik?” Charles asks, when Erik still says nothing.

Erik knocks over his king again, and Charles reaches out automatically to set it back up, because that’s just an awful waste of a good game, but Erik grabs his wrist and holds it loosely. When Charles looks up again, Erik asks, “Do you want to know why I went home with you last night?”

Charles frowns, frustrated, and almost reaches out for the answer in Erik’s mind. “Because you were drunk,” he says. It’s at least part of the truth, Charles knew that last night. “And you think I’m hot.” That might be more true than the drunk bit.

Shifting his grip on Charles’ wrist slightly, making it more natural, his thumb running lightly over the sensitive skin there. “Because you took my drink,” he says, gesturing at his beer with his free hand.

“What?” Charles says, because he hadn’t been expecting that.

“You took my drink,” Erik repeats, as if Charles doesn’t remember with embarrassing clarity. “You were different than I expected—interesting. The media portrays you as some kind of saint—”

Charles snorts, cutting Erik off. “I’m fairly certain the world is convinced I’m an arrogant, party-going flirt,” he says, glancing back down at the chessboard to avoid Erik’s gaze.

“But they leave out the part where you’re a selfish asshole,” Erik says and when Charles looks up, he catches the slow smirk spreading across Erik’s face.

Ignoring the interested twist in his stomach, Charles pulls a grimace and says, “Way to charm a guy.”

Erik laughs. “You were so much more like a real person than I’d imagined you were,” he says, shifting in his chair, moving closer across the board. “And your eyes are much more blue in real life than they on television.”

His face warming, Charles tries to deflect, waving his hand back at the board. “I don’t know about that,” he says, shifting in his seat.

“Charles,” Erik says, and Charles feels Erik’s desire tug at him from the inside. It’s not just desire, either. It’s layered through with genuine interest—interest in _Charles_ , not in _Xavier_ —and it’s overwhelming in its intensity. Charles has never felt someone’s attention on him like this before, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Part of him wants to blame his own imagination, reaching for something to fill in the wound in his ego that Sebastian has left, but he’s not sure that he could make this up. He’s absolutely certain he couldn’t have accidentally made Erik believe it either. It’s not something he’s ever been aware that he was missing.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says, standing up abruptly. He needs to get away from Erik—to clear his head. “I think I should get some sleep.”

Erik’s mind snaps closed, his eyes shuttering to something colder, icier, but he doesn’t object. “If that’s what you want,” he says, grabbing up their glasses and pushing himself to his feet.

Charles watches, his chest tight with something he doesn’t understand. “I really am sorry,” he says, but Erik ignores him as he marches back towards the kitchen.

Sitting in stunned silence, Charles tries to sort his thoughts. The noise Erik is making in the kitchen is distracting, though, and Charles snaps himself up and out of his chair. He can’t be here anymore, not with Erik so near, but the only escape he has is the bathroom. He goes, turning on the taps, hoping the sound will drown out Erik’s presence beyond the door. It doesn’t.

When he steps out of the bathroom again, the door to Erik’s room is shut. There is no strip of light at the bottom, although Charles can still feel Erik’s mind turning itself over and over again in the dark. Charles wants to knock, to find Erik and apologize, kiss him again, pretend that the last twenty-four hours aren’t tainted with the memory of Sebastian, but he can’t. It would be disrespectful to all of them, so he turns back to the couch.

Erik has left out some blankets and a pillow, and Charles feels a pang of longing in his chest, longing for Erik who thinks of him even when he’s hurt him. 

Cocooning himself in the blankets, Charles closes his mind to Erik’s, shutting out as much of the outside world as he can. He focuses instead on how he will go to work again, face his friends and colleagues without the shadow of Sebastian over his shoulder, and make a new name for himself in the world. Next weekend he’ll go to a different club, dance with a different stranger, buy them a drink, and have another night of anonymous sex. His life will go back to how it was before Sebastian—the transition will be simple, smooth, as if Sebastian had never happened.

Except in the morning, when Charles wakes to find Erik in the shower yet again, using his same play from the previous morning, Charles feels a sick pull of regret in his stomach.

There’s a small note scribbled on a sticky note on top of the pile of his clean clothes on the coffee table, telling him that the snow has been cleared. Erik hadn’t signed it, but Charles pockets it anyway as he pulls on his clothes. It feels odd to be back in his clothes and out of Erik’s, odder still to pull his shoes on at the door and turn the handle to leave.

It’s what Erik wants. At least, it’s what they had both wanted yesterday morning—for Charles to slip out of the door, for them to slip out of each other’s lives forever. But now it feels wrong. Now it feels like they know each other, like they’re friends, at least, and leaving without even a goodbye seems harsh and cold.

But Erik’s mind is closed off in the shower, already turned away from Charles and moving forward with his life. Charles sighs, ignoring the ache that the thought of never seeing Erik again leaves in his chest as he turns the doorknob and steps out into the hall. Closing the door behind him, Charles tells himself that he’s fine. He’s ready to move on.

This morning the rest of the building seems more alive. There are hundreds of humming minds all around, going about their business and unconcerned with the weather. There’s even an old lady in the elevator when Charles steps inside. She smiles kindly to him when he pushes the already lit lobby button for good measure and Charles decides her mind is as good as any to anchor himself to as Erik’s mind becomes more and more distant as the floors go by.

By the time they reach the lobby, the woman recognizes him. “Charles Xavier?” she asks, her mind already spinning expected answers, things that he might say, that he’s said to strangers in the past, things that she can tell her friends.

Opening his mouth to respond, to say any one of those generic things, Charles finds he can’t do it. Something has changed inside of him in Erik’s apartment—Erik has changed something—and Charles can’t just leave their relationship hanging like this, clipped short. Erik is important.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Charles manages to say, jamming his finger into the number for Erik’s floor again when the woman steps into the lobby. “I’ve forgotten something.”

Charles can’t stop fidgeting as the elevator pulls itself upward once more. He’s full of a nervous energy he doesn’t recognize and he can’t stop turning over different responses he might receive from Erik when he appears in his doorway once more. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say when Erik opens the door—he barely understands why he’s going back.

Outside Erik’s door, Charles hesitates, his fist raised to knock. He still hasn’t decided what to say and it’s becoming more and more difficult to think over the beating of his heart. But Erik opens the door before Charles has a chance to knock.

They stare at each other for a moment, and Charles can almost taste Erik’s surprise. Erik is again dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, the chord of headphones tangled around his fingers. There must be a gym somewhere in the building, Charles thinks distantly, eyes fixing on the stretch of cotton around Erik’s biceps.

“Charles,” Erik says, pulling Charles out of his thoughts.

Charles sucks in a deep breath, but only manages to say, “Would you like to go out for coffee?”

Erik stares at him, his brow furrowed. The moment drags on and Charles has to look away, twisting his fingers in the hem of his coat. This is a disaster already, especially after how he’d acted the night before. They haven’t spoken since Charles rejected Erik’s last advance and now he’s asking him out for coffee. Very smooth.

“Right now?” Erik asks eventually, that line still deep between his eyebrows.

“Oh,” Charles says, because he hadn’t really thought that far ahead. Of course Erik wouldn’t want to go right now. Charles doesn’t even know what Erik has planned, and Charles has a long list of things he needs to do as well, after being locked up in Erik’s apartment for a day. “I mean. I’d like to take you out for coffee sometime. I’d like to buy you a drink. Any drink, actually. Maybe dinner. Definitely dinner. I definitely want to take you out for dinner, but that seems a little more serious than coffee—or a drink. Oh, god. Fuck. This is horrible. I’m sorry. I’ll just go.”

Before Charles can turn to leave, his ears burning, Erik catches his wrist with strong fingers, and when Charles turns back, he marvels at the blush staining Erik’s cheeks.

Erik drops Charles’ wrist and runs his hand nervously through his hair instead, asking, “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes,” Charles says, because he does appear to be doing just that. “Rather horribly, though. Can I try again?”

“You are a very confusing man,” Erik says, obviously turning over yesterday’s conversations in his mind.

“I’m sorry,” Charles murmurs, preparing himself for the let down, preparing again to walk away and never see Erik again. “I was wrong yesterday. I might not be ready for another relationship, but I want to be. For you.”

There’s a long pause during which Charles refuses to look up and meet Erik’s gaze, although he can feel it on him. But then Erik is leaning in, brushing his nose to Charles’, and Charles doesn’t even try to stop the kiss. He leans into it, his hand catching in Erik’s shirt to steady himself as their mouths move together, warm and slow.

When Erik finally pulls back he says, “That was a yes.”

Charles stares at him for a moment, his mind turning slowly. “Oh,” he says, heart jumping to his throat and a smile pulling at his lips. “I’m not quite sure I heard it.”

Grinning, Erik shoves his shoulder gently, but leans in to give him another quick kiss. “Give me a minute to get my coat,” he says against Charles’ lips.

“What?” Charles asks, mind spinning into overdrive. “Now?”

“You really are an idiot,” Erik murmurs as he disappears back into his apartment.

Charles doesn’t know whether he should follow or not, so he stays where he is, glancing around the empty hallway and feeling awkward. He can barely believe that this is really happening. A _date_ with Erik.

“Are you sure?” Charles asks, when Erik steps into the hallway again, this time with his coat and gloves. “Right now?”

“Why not?” Erik asks.

Despite his earlier thoughts of work and Raven and wallowing in self-pity, Charles can’t think of a single thing he would rather be doing than getting coffee with Erik.

“Why not,” he repeats, smiling as Erik takes his hand.


End file.
